


Command me to be well

by xRinsexRepeatx



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aliens Made Them Do It, Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-18 12:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18699496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xRinsexRepeatx/pseuds/xRinsexRepeatx
Summary: The circle of people thinned in front of him, their shoulders clad in hardened leather, shuffling against each other as they made space for Rodney to fall on his knees in the dusty dirt. Rodney’s hands were tied behind his back, hard, making his t-shirt stretch over his chest. There were dirt streaks on his face, but no blood. Panic on his face, but he looked up and saw John and held his gaze like a lifeline.John focused on the facts. One. This was a show. People who played with their food weren’t quick on the trigger. Two. Teyla had made it. There would be backup.They just had to make it that long.





	Command me to be well

* * *

* * *

The rough pole dug into John’s back, and his wrists stung, rubbed raw from the rope. The rope that went around his wrists hard enough to make his hands tingle with numbness, then after a knot made its way around his waist, then his chest, forcing his breaths shallow. Another rope -- around his thighs, spun around his knees and ankles, digging deep into him, even though they’d only taken off his tac vest.

He could barely move. Hell, he could barely keep himself balanced, the pole forcing his center of mass back and his feet too close together to compensate. There were people gathered around him in a wide circle, too mean-looking to be a village, too many to be a gang of thugs.

John focused on the facts. One. This was a show. People who played with their food weren’t quick on the trigger. Two. Teyla had made it. There would be backup.

The circle of people thinned in front of him, their shoulders clad in hardened leather, shuffling against each other as they made space for Rodney to fall on his knees in the dusty dirt. The man who had kicked him forward looked bigger and meaner than most of the others, and John wished he had a bullet to turn his grey matter into a smoothie with. Rodney’s hands were tied behind his back, hard, making his t-shirt stretch over his chest. There were dirt streaks on his face, but no blood. Panic on his face, but he looked up and saw John and held his gaze like a lifeline.

The man kicked Rodney in the ass and Rodney tipped forward, hit the ground hard with his right shoulder before getting a foot under himself, walked two steps before he was kicked again, and one more time so that he fell into John, chin colliding hard with John’s upper thigh. There was nothing John could do.

Rodney let his weight rest against John for a breath, before he straightened his spine, knees wide on the ground. His eyes flickered up to John’s again, asking if there was a plan. All John could do was meet his gaze steadily, and hope it was reassuring. The only plan was to keep their wits and wait for rescue.

The large man took another step closer. “Go on. Suck him.”

John’s blood turned ice cold and shot down his stomach.

“W-what?” Rodney’s voice was breaking.

“Don’t make him wait.” The man was grinning, wide and vicious. “Isn’t he your leader? You should show him some respect.”

“Are you _crazy?_ ” Rodney was shrieking now. This was bad. John couldn’t think. He couldn’t move.

“Are you slow?” The man unclasped something at his hip, and brought up something like a spiked baseball bat in a slow arch. “Either you get his cock in your mouth, or I’ll bash your brains in.”

Rodney looked up at him again, bright blue eyes, and John tried to pull his hands free without moving too much. Maybe if he managed to break his thumbs he could -- 

The man moved so that he was in Rodney’s peripheral vision, and knocked the bat to the ground.

“I -- How do you expect me to do this with no hands and him dressed?”

“I expect you --” The man dragged the bat in the dirt as he got closer, right next to them. He pressed the bat to Rodney’s cheek, slid it, made a red gash appear as Rodney sucked in a breath of air. “-- to _do it._ ” He straightened up. “If you don’t hurry up I’ll beat his brain in first and still make you do it.”

For a second, Rodney was perfectly still. Then he lurched forward and bit at John’s waist and John didn’t understand what the hell he was doing until he felt his belt snap loose. This wasn’t -- He looked up, at the people gathered around. There was a creepy, focused calm to them compared to before. The show had begun.

Rodney bit his way through the buttons of John’s pants with the frantic fervor of a genius fearing for his life. Once he was done, the pants sagged easily, and John flinched as Rodney bit at his hip.

Not at his hip. The waistband of his boxers. He was really doing it, really _hurrying_ , too, and John wanted to tell him to slow it down but the bastard with the bat was too close.

One final pull, and John was exposed. The relief at not being even the slightest bit hard was almost painful; he didn't want Rodney to think he _liked_ seeing him like this, beaten and afraid.

Rodney’s eyes flickered up to John's for a fraction of a second, looking for something. Whatever it was, John had nothing to give, spent his all keeping himself from thrashing and screaming and getting them both killed. Rodney leaned forward and opened his mouth wide, took John’s cockhead in his mouth, just let it rest on his tongue, because _of course_ he'd try to get away on technicalities. 

John couldn’t find it funny just now. Breathing was good. He closed his eyes, and forced his focus onto anything above his waist; air through his nose, the pounding sting of the burns on his wrists.

He thought he was gonna make it, but then the bat hit the ground again, and as if on command Rodney sucked more of him into his mouth and began to move.

The ice in his stomach turned to lead, sank and turned to molten stone in his groin, a heat and hardness he couldn't bear. He bit his tongue, pulled against the ropes so that they dragged in his sores, but nothing could drown out the disgusting pleasure of it.

In a last ditch effort, he forced his eyes open, forced himself to look.

Rodney’s skin was angry red and there was shine and popping veins on his forehead and _John's cock_ moving in and out of his mouth. He looked terrible, eyes squeezed tightly shut, desperate in all the wrong ways.

John couldn't move, couldn't get away from the methodical way Rodney’s mouth moved to swallow him over and over, couldn't get away from how _fucking_ good it fucking felt.

He didn't look at their audience before he closed his eyes again, could already feel their greedy eyes on him in full three-sixty.

The man with the bat laughed.

John would kill them all. He would bash their brains in with that bat, would hit and hit until there were no solid targets left.

His cock was rock hard now, and Rodney was working it like a champ, mechanical and without a single flourish. John realized he would come from this, would come all over his best friend’s red, desperate face. He couldn’t stop it, could feel it closing in on him, as inevitable as the second half of the jump off a building.

He did, painfully; felt it rip something out of him as it went and Rodney, for some godforsaken reason, swallowed it down.

John wasn’t sure what happened first, if Rodney pulled off before he could hear the distant high-pitched sound of an approaching ‘jumper or after, but all at once people were moving and Rodney was _gone_ and there was nothing John could do, strapped to a pole with his dick out.

* * *

* * *

He told the others it had been a humiliation thing, that he’d been tied up and his BDU’s pulled down and he’d just been left like that. He’d laughed a bit and cracked something about never having been caught with his pants down quite like that before, all the while clenching his jaw against waves of nausea.

Rodney didn’t say anything all the way back to base. John tried to tell himself it was because a ‘jumper full of marines wasn’t his favorite audience, but he was too much of a coward to actually look over.

They sent John off to get some rest, and for once, he didn’t object. There was something inside him, a pressure, and he couldn’t tell what it would make him do.

He went to his quarters.

It took him a minute to become aware that he was just standing there, and hadn’t even thought about taking off his boots. He should do that.

He looked at his bed. He should lie down for a bit. But first he ought to take off his boots.

He didn’t.

Instead, he slid his left foot behind him in a half-circle, turned around, and swung his right fist hard into the wall by the door, suddenly breathing hard. He leaned against it, hit again, softer, and again.

John stayed there, forehead and aching hand pressed against the wall, beating his knuckles against it again whenever the pain subsided too much, and didn’t think at all. He didn’t think about every small touch he’d allowed himself and how they’d never been enough, didn’t think about how he’d maybe willed this into existence with all his late-night fantasies, didn’t think about how he’d never again drift off to sleep to ridiculous pipe dreams of ways in which it would finally happen. Because now it had.

* * *

* * *

After a while, he must have gone to lie on his bed. Some time after that, he was still staring at the ceiling.

John didn’t know how much time had passed when there was a knock at the door.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet, stood up, took the handful of steps to the door and forced his body straight and relaxed as it opened, kept his eyes on Rodney’s left shoulder as they both stood there, silent.

When Rodney finally spoke, his voice was hard, and hurt.

“Oh, so that’s how it is?”

John felt the tension run through him in ripples, settle in his jaw, in his hands. His eyes flickered further away, to the side.

“I -- _No_ ,” Rodney’s tone changed abruptly, and he moved into the room with John unable to do anything but yield to the side to let him. “You don’t get to do this.”

Rodney took a few steps into the room. The door closed.

“Trust me, I don’t want to have this conversation either, but there is an entire city depending on us being able to work together, so I think that -- Colonel.”

John was still staring at the door, afraid to move in case it would unsettle any of the thousand things trying to claw their way out.

“You know what? No. I won’t -- I won’t. You could tell I’ve done that before, and if it’s that repulsive to you --”

He couldn’t, he couldn’t --

“It _is!_ ” John screamed at the door, punched it palm up with his bruised hand, a satisfying bolt of pain shooting up his shoulder, and the room fell quiet behind him. His throat felt full of barbs. His hand fell back to his side, useless.

It was too much. He didn’t move. The pain that throbbed up his arm felt like something bleeding out of him but the screaming pressure in his chest didn’t lessen.

Rodney was quiet when he spoke again, voice strange. Rodney didn’t do resigned.

“I really thought you were better than this.”

John had wanted to think so, too.

There were two steps behind him, decisive and then faltering. “Colonel.” His voice was tense again. “The door.”

“ _No_ ,” John rasped, because he didn’t have words for the rest of it.

“What would you have done, huh? Would you rather have died than _demean_ yourself?” Rodney spat out the words and then pushed at John’s shoulder, going for the door, _leaving_ \--

“ _John_ \--” 

Rodney pushed, and John pushed back, and it turned into a feeble wrestling match, Rodney aiming for the door, John stopping him even though it hurt to feel Rodney’s hands pushing him away, his own desperate to keep him. Rodney shoved him, hard; angry, now, afraid, and John needed him to stay but couldn’t stomach trying to force him, so instead he fell to his knees, clutching at the coarse fabric at Rodney’s hips. 

“What -- Let me _go_ \--”

Rodney tried to back away from him, but John held on and even though Rodney was pulling away John pressed his forehead against the dip between Rodney’s stomach and thigh, his nose almost against Rodney’s groin. His fingers were frozen into claws, arms locked tight, words stuck in his throat and a thousand roiling feelings inside him.

He held on, and after a while Rodney stopped struggling, but John didn’t dare to let him go. He held on.

The slightest rustling of fabric that made John’s fingers twitch to hold on tighter, but Rodney didn’t seem to move until hesitant fingers found their way to John’s temple, tracing across his ear, a warm palm settling, soft and firm, against the side of his head. He fell towards it, let his lips brush the inside of Rodney’s wrist, breathed against it, inhaled the scent of his skin, faintly and laced with the infimary’s antiseptics.

John unfurled his hands and moved them up, to the seam between cargos and shirt, and down again to Rodney’s thighs, over the outer seam, feeling the tense muscle underneath. Rodney’s hand moved back, thumb over John’s cheek to trace his lower lip, and John chased it easily, kissed Rodney’s hand as he drew it in, drew John in, until his mouth met his own hand at Rodney’s hip. Rodney’s hands were gone, not leading him anymore and not pushing him away, and there was nothing but his breathing and the sandy sound of fabric under his callouses as he moved to press Rodney’s shirt up a sliver, just enough to touch his lips to the skin. Rodney drew in a sharp breath and his abdomen twitched, but he didn’t move away. John could have this.

He could have this.

John’s hands got braver, pressed into the small of Rodney’s back to bring him closer, kept kissing at the same spot, breathing in the smell of it all, Rodney’s mustiness and his own wet traces on warm skin.

He could keep doing this forever, in part because he was lost, had no idea what came next.

But Rodney’s hand returned to the hinge of his jaw, pulled at it lightly, and John obediently, finally, looked up at him, at blown eyes and slack lips and a violent set of emotions that John felt, had been feeling for a long time, just had never believed could be directed back at him. He rose, then, easily, let one hand on Rodney’s neck help steady him as they ended up lips to lips as they were supposed to.

John breathed against Rodney’s mouth, and felt Rodney breathing too as they shared light barely-kisses, slow and careful, chest to chest, all of Rodney solidly against all of John, his stomach, his thigh, hard cock in his pants and reliable hands at John’s waist. He wanted to be closer, nudged at Rodney gently to no avail.

“Bed,” he breathed against Rodney’s mouth.

“Okay, okay. Yeah, uh,” Rodney’s head flitted to glance at the narrow cot, then back to brush John’s lips with his own again, then away. So, John led him by the waist, laid down and pulled Rodney on top of him, relishing how gravity brought them closer, almost close enough.

Rodney kissed him harder, deeper, and his hands fumbled down John’s sides and in under his shirt. Rodney’s thighs were crowding his and he was grinding their clothed groins together, the hard lumps of button-up flies making the movement uncomfortable and vaguely stuttered. Another couple of seconds later, and Rodney’s hand moved between them, deftly unbuttoning himself and shoving his clothes just a hand’s width out of the way, shifting upwards, moaning when he could move against John’s bared stomach instead.

John took hold of Rodney’s broad shoulders, stroked down his solid back all the way to his ass, and when he pushed his hand in under the loosened layers, he got a moan and a tongue pushing greedily into his mouth in response. It was intoxicating, the responsiveness, the sheer magnitude of desire, all directed at him. There was no way Rodney could pretend he was someone else, not with how he hadn’t even showered since the mission and probably smelled just as bad as he did on any number of close-quartered ‘jumper trips home, dirt and sweat and the last remnants of aftershave.

John listened to Rodney’s breathing growing heavier, felt the sweat form along Rodney’s hairline when his hand went up to it. The kissing turned more sparse, until Rodney dipped his head down, the side of his face brushing against John’s, out of breath, small noises escaping him on the exhales, right into John’s ear. John grabbed him tight, mouthed at his ear, and Rodney shuddered, tensed, hot release pulsing onto John’s skin, spreading wetly between them as he kept panting into the pillow.

John let his hands settle, stroked one up Rodney’s sweat-slicked back, snuck in under his shirt, the other moving down his side, back in under the waistband, fingers splayed wide. Rodney didn’t move an inch, just kept breathing, John taking turns with the inhales, matching his pace.

Already, the sweat began to cool, but Rodney kept still, and John’s hand settled on the lowest dip of his back. Soon they’d be at the aftermath but he drank in as much as he could of the moment, Rodney’s skin under his hands and his steadily calming heartbeat against his own.

“I’m sorry,” John says, staring at the ceiling, the words filling all the quiet space they’d carved out.

He waits.

* * *

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> title from take me to church by hozier
> 
> comments and kudos are love <3


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